"Bournemouth Epiphany" - Part One
Author: hedwigs_bane
Super-Beta: weetziecat
Pairing: None
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 3,357 (this part) -- 5,751 (total) Too long for one post.
A.N.: I'd never really considered trying a story from Dudley Dursley's POV before, and thought it might be interesting. Hope you appreciate the expreriment....
Bournemouth Epiphany
(Part One)
“Do you love me? Have you ever loved me?”
Dudley Dursley stood frozen in his second bedroom, wishing he had closed the door. Almost nineteen years old, he had only recently begun hearing this tone in his mother’s voice, and each time he heard it, it frightened him.
From the time he was old enough to know what marriage was supposed to be about, he had wondered what it was that kept his parents together. He had friends whose parents seemed so much more compatible, able to converse without the underlying current of tension that always seemed to exist between his own parents. For the longest time he had not been aware of it, and for even longer he had simply ignored it. These days, it had become more and more obvious that his parents were at odds with one another, and the tone of his mother’s voice that worried him so much was cropping up with a terrifying regularity.
It had started while they were in hiding, and had become more pronounced when they finally returned to Privet Drive. For the better part of eleven months they had been kept safe by magical people, whom Dudley had finally learned to call witches and wizards. He had, in fact, learned more about the world his cousin Harry Potter inhabited than he had ever thought he wanted to know. Incredulously at first, and then with growing fascination, he listened as it was explained to him exactly what role his cousin played in this parallel reality that his parents had denigrated longer than he could remember. He could hardly believe that the scrawny, shrinking little boy he had bullied for so long could actually be the hero these strangely dressed people made him out to be.
Their sojourn in Bournemouth had been far from unpleasant. Their “guard”, as they referred to themselves, had made sure that any request they made was honored, short of contact with anyone they had known on Privet Drive. They had been lodged in a large house which overlooked the ocean, and was so immaculate upon their arrival that his mother couldn’t find a speck of dust to tut about. His father had, of course, harrumphed about the place, speculating about what “this tribe of weirdos” must have done to “normal people” to procure the sort of wealth displayed in their lodgings.
Dudley tried to agree with his father, but in less than a fortnight, he could no longer understand why he didn’t appreciate what was being done for them. Dudley was thrilled not to have to attend school, and couldn’t understand why his father didn’t enjoy the fact that he had an indefinite holiday from work. They had nothing to do with their days but relax and enjoy the seashore. Still, his father seemed constantly ill at ease, grumbling about how he would be fired from Grunnings, and how many business opportunities were slipping through his fingers as they hid out in this “gilded cage”, as he put it.
Dudley noticed that his mother was becoming more irritable as well, but not so much with the situation as with her husband. Whereas in the past, she would normally just concede to anything his father said, now she could often be heard sniping at him to stop complaining and to make the most of the situation. He had free time, and the wizard who explained it had told them that they could modify the memories of the people Vernon worked for so that his absence would be easily explained, and later forgotten.
Much to his amazement, Dudley had often heard his mother asking the various wizards and witches for news about her nephew. She’d hardly seemed to notice when Dudley would enter the room during such reports. He had often shared his mother’s disappointment when, for long periods, there simply was no news. In time, Dudley came to understand that the fate of his world was somehow intertwined with that of the wizarding world, and that Harry was in the forefront of the battle.
“What has that got to do with anything?” Dudley heard his father say from the dining room, easily able to envision the vein throbbing in his forehead. “It’s got nothing to do with you and me. It’s that freak nephew of yours. I thought we were finally shot of him!”
Dudley knew that, no matter what his father said, his mother was far from being “shot of” Harry Potter. Come to that, neither was Dudley. During their time in their hiding place, Dudley had had long conversations with Hestia Jones, one of the witches charged with the Dursley family’s safety. The woman was a veritable fountain of information about the “famous” Harry Potter. Dudley had known little of the circumstances of Harry coming to live with them on Privet Drive, beyond the fact that his parents had been killed, and for years had thought they’d died in a car crash. He had been surprised to find out that they had been murdered by some evil wizard.
During long discussions with Hestia, which had to be carried on far from Vernon Dursley, who kept telling his son, “You stay away from those freaks, boy,” Dudley was amazed to discover just what his cousin represented to the world of wizards. He couldn’t imagine a more unlikely hero than Harry, but he couldn’t deny the sort of bravery he seemed possess. Dudley had had a glimpse of it the previous summer, and though it took him a while to realize it, he finally got his head around the idea that his own life had been saved by the boy he had spent years bullying and ridiculing.
The last time he had seen his cousin, Dudley had felt a sudden surge of concern and gratitude. He was, however, ill-equipped to deal with such emotions, much less express them coherently. The more he learned about Harry, the more he regretted not even having been able to say “thank you”, or maybe even “I’m sorry”, for all the times he had striven to make Harry’s life miserable.
It didn’t help having had Hestia recount all the times Harry had faced danger and death, and had triumphed each time. He tried to imagine a twelve year old Harry plunging a sword into a huge snake, or a fourteen year old Harry flying on a broomstick and stealing an egg from a dragon. A dragon! His scrawny, little cousin, who always looked so pathetic in Dudley’s castoffs, at whom no one would look twice, had fought a dragon, and won!
Soon, Dudley had stopped waiting for his mother to ask for news, and had taken to watching for Hestia on those occasions when she had been away for days, hoping that she would return with some news of Harry, some clue that he was at least alive, if not safe. Much to his dismay, most of what the witch could tell him seemed to amount to little more than rumour and hearsay. He hadn’t felt any better when Hestia explained that she was not trying to keep anything from him, but that there was simply no information to be had.
Two months into their stay in Bournemouth, Dudley developed a sense of how important the struggle against the dark wizard Voldemort actually was. Hestia made it clear to him the danger to people like himself and his parents; “muggles”, she explained, was the proper term. He found it almost incomprehensible that Voldemort would harbor such hatred of people like him, and that if the struggle was lost, they were all in danger. Dudley had decided that if it was necessary, he had to be prepared to fight.
Having stood naked in front of the full length mirror in his room, Dudley did a critical assessment of himself. Deciding that the weight lifting had produced some impressive results, he still couldn’t deny the obvious. He was fat. The bulk around his midsection had little to do with muscle, and a great deal to do with how he ate and how little real exercise he got. Eschewing his television and his computer games, Dudley began to take long walks on the beach, which eventually evolved into long runs, until he could actually run a full ten miles. As summer gave way to autumn, Dudley could see the changes taking place in his figure, especially in the way his trousers kept threatening to fall off his hips. He wondered how Harry, skinny as he was, had ever been able to wear his old trousers without having them around his ankles most of the time.
Fortunately, one of the witches who guarded the family knew how to shrink the waistband of his trousers so that they would fit correctly. His mother had been thrilled when he started turning down second helpings of more bulky foods, and instead opting for more salads and vegetables, and his father’s chest swelled with pride to see his son looking so fit. “Guess you’ll be fighting the girls off when we get back to Little Whinging, eh, boy?”
Fighting girls off was pretty low on Dudley’s list of priorities. He was indeed preparing to fight, though he wouldn’t dare tell his parents. If his cousin could do so much to save the wizarding world, the least Dudley could do was be prepared to defend his own family. He had no idea if brute force was any match for magic, but something about hearing the true story of Harry Potter made it essential to do something, anything, that could help turn the tide of the battle. Dudley was determined to be ready if the call ever came.
It hadn’t. In mid May, just as Dudley was finishing his daily run, Hestia had appeared in front of him with a loud cracking noise. No matter how many times he had seen her travel this way, Dudley still found it disconcerting.
“It’s over,” she had informed him. “He Who Must Not Be Named is dead!” She wore an expression of supreme joy, and Dudley couldn’t help but think she would rather be with those of her kind, celebrating the defeat of Voldemort.
“What about Harry?” Dudley asked at once. “Did he… is he..?”
“He’s fine,” Hestia assured him. “I don’t know the details yet, but from what I do know, he was the one who killed You Know Who. So, we’ll be arranging for you and your family to go home as soon as we can.”
Dudley had been surprised with his own reaction to this news. He thought he would have been happy to return to Surrey, but life in Bournemouth had become so familiar, and the things he had learned about his cousin and himself in that place made him feel as if he belonged there. Nevertheless, arrangements had been made, and before he knew it, he and his parents were walking through the front door of Number Four, Privet Drive.
Dudley had no idea how the wizards had managed it, but his father returned to work to discover he had been promoted to vice-president of some division or another, though he’d never admit there may have been magical intervention, opting to believe he really was so valuable an employee. Meanwhile, Dudley’s mother had gone from room to room, finding none of the dust she had presumed had been settling the entire time they were away. Dudley quietly unpacked his things, lay on his bed, and tried to convince himself that the whole experience hadn’t been some strange dream.
Life returned to a relative state or normalcy for the Dursley family. There were differences, however. Dudley’s mother seemed less concerned with keeping everything in the house just so, being content with a general tidiness. Dudley himself made no effort to seek out his former friends, no longer feeling a need to be the scourge of the neighborhood. Only his father acted as if the past eleven months hadn’t even happened. It worked well for about two and a half weeks, until the owl landed on the dining room window sill one warm night in June.
Dudley, whose chair faced the window, saw it first. But before he could swallow his food and announce its presence, the bird tapped on the widow with its beak. His father nearly jumped out of his seat when he heard the sound, and then again when he saw what had made it. Without another thought, Dudley got up from his seat and opened the window, allowing the owl to enter. It flew one circuit of the room, before landing on the table in front of his mother, where it stood and lifted a foot, revealing a folded piece of yellowish paper.
Dudley was surprised at the ease with which his mother detached the parchment from the large brown owl’s leg, something that would have had her trembling before their long sabbatical by the sea. Free of its burden, the owl remained where it was, hungrily eyeing the platter of roast beef in the center of the table. Dudley cut a piece from his own plate and handed it to the owl while his mother unfolded the paper.
“It’s from Harry,” she said quietly, and then silently read the contents.
“Well?” his father asked after several long moments. “What is it?”
Dudley could hardly believe the look on his mother’s face as she turned towards his father. It was something like a calm defiance, almost as if she was daring him to respond inappropriately. “He found my sister’s grave. He says he’ll take me to see it if I’d like.”
“Well,” his father huffed, pulling a pen from his jacket pocket. “You can just write back and tell him you’re not interested.”
Dudley watched a dark expression cross his mother’s face. “I’m going.” Her voice had a finality to it that Dudley would have been afraid to question, but his father seemed undaunted. The argument began immediately, and was paused only long enough for his mother to ask Dudley to go to his room. Though months ago he might have argued, now Dudley simply nodded, got up from the table, and climbed the stairs.
Instead of going to his own bedroom, he went to the room Harry had inhabited during his summers on Privet Drive. Sitting on the bed, Dudley could still hear every word his parents spoke, as they made no effort to keep their voices quiet.
“I forbid it!”
“You forbid?” Dudley could hear the derision in his mother’s voice. “Do you honestly believe it works that way?”
“If you go with that freaky nephew of yours,” his father said threateningly, “ I’ll… I’ll…”
“What, Vernon?” His mother spat out. “What will you do? What else can you do? You’ve already made sure that I never saw my sister before she died. You made me ignore my own parents. Frankly, I don’t care anymore. I am going with Harry to visit my sister’s grave. If that means losing you, I really don’t care.”
Dudley sat in the darkness, stunned to hear his mother speaking this way. She had rarely raised her voice to his father, and she had never sounded so resolute when disagreeing with him. While Dudley dreaded the thought that this might actually cause his parents to consider divorce, he had to admit that he was on his mother’s side. Because of his prejudices, Vernon had virtually ensured that his wife had had no contact with her family. Dudley had never met his grandparents on his mother’s side. He assumed they were dead, but he had no evidence of it. He had never seen so much as a picture of them.
Nor had he met his Aunt Lily, or her husband James Potter. He knew from Hestia’s descriptions that Harry was almost the image of his father, but for his eyes, which favored his mother. He recalled the times he had derided Harry for being an orphan, never having stopped to think what a horrible thing it was to say. He couldn’t begin to imagine how hard it must have been for his cousin to be raised as he was, and now he regretted making it so much more difficult. Having spent so much time in the company of wizards and witches, Dudley could no longer understand his father’s dislike for people who were, admittedly, different, but certainly not the freaks and weirdos his father painted them as.
The voices from the dining room had dropped in volume, to the point where Dudley could no longer make out any words. With a deep breath, he stood and made his way back down the stairs.
“Dudders,” his father looked up at him. “We told you to go to your room.”
“I want to go, too,” Dudley said with as much resolve as he could muster.
“Go where?” His father asked.
“With Mum and Harry, when they go… when they go to…”
“Absolutely not!” His father roared, jumping to his feet. “You will not be going anywhere!”
“Yes, I will,” Dudley said evenly. “Someone should be with Mum.” He turned and smiled at his mother, who looked as if she was about to cry. Still, she remained seated instead of running to him and making the sort of fuss she had so often in the past.
“Thank you, Dudley,” his mother said softly. Her expression and tone of voice assured Dudley that he had, for the first time in his life, displayed the sort of unselfishness his parents had always claimed he possessed, and which, to his shame, he knew he never had.
“When do we go?” he asked, ignoring his father’s heaving breath and purple face.
“Harry’s letter says he’ll be here Thursday morning,” his mother replied, taking the pen that his father had produced earlier and writing a few words at the bottom of the parchment. Once she had finished, she folded the paper and reached out tentatively towards the owl, which obligingly raised its leg again, obviously expecting the letter. His mother tied the letter fast, looked at the owl and said, “You know where to go?” With a hoot that almost sounded like an affirmative answer, the owl hopped to the edge of the table. A strong breeze filled the room and knocked over the salt and pepper as the owl flapped its wings and took off through the still open window.
All three Dursleys stared at the window for some time. Finally, Dudley walked over and pulled it shut. He turned back around to see his mother and father glaring at each other.
“He will not be staying in this house again,” his father growled. Dudley presumed he was picking up their interrupted argument, this time not concerned for his presence.
“I seriously doubt he’d want to,” his mother replied, a mixture of blame and guilt in her voice. “He never had any reason to think of this house as his home.”
“Not his home?” His father puffed his chest. “We gave him-”
“Nothing but years of misery,” his mother cut across him. “We did everything in our power to make him feel unwanted and unwelcome. Yet still he and his friends made sure we were safe. And still he is willing to show me where my sister is buried. I just thank God we didn’t manage to do to him what we did to…” she froze and turned to Dudley, looking horrified about what she had almost said. “Oh, Dudley, I didn’t mean…”
“It’s all right, Mum,” Dudley smirked and nodded. “You’re right. I’ve been a right little bastard.”
“Dudley!” His father snapped. “I will not have that kind of language in my house. You are not a… well, you’re not that!”
“Fine,” Dudley allowed himself a real smile. “A wanker, then.” Turning back to his mother, Dudley saw her lips curl and a single tear roll down her cheek. In another moment they both began to chuckle, and then gave way to the first real laugh either of them had had since the day they left Privet Drive, while his father simply stared at them stupidly.
Click here for Part Two
Super-Beta: weetziecat
Pairing: None
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 3,357 (this part) -- 5,751 (total) Too long for one post.
A.N.: I'd never really considered trying a story from Dudley Dursley's POV before, and thought it might be interesting. Hope you appreciate the expreriment....
Bournemouth Epiphany
(Part One)
“Do you love me? Have you ever loved me?”
Dudley Dursley stood frozen in his second bedroom, wishing he had closed the door. Almost nineteen years old, he had only recently begun hearing this tone in his mother’s voice, and each time he heard it, it frightened him.
From the time he was old enough to know what marriage was supposed to be about, he had wondered what it was that kept his parents together. He had friends whose parents seemed so much more compatible, able to converse without the underlying current of tension that always seemed to exist between his own parents. For the longest time he had not been aware of it, and for even longer he had simply ignored it. These days, it had become more and more obvious that his parents were at odds with one another, and the tone of his mother’s voice that worried him so much was cropping up with a terrifying regularity.
It had started while they were in hiding, and had become more pronounced when they finally returned to Privet Drive. For the better part of eleven months they had been kept safe by magical people, whom Dudley had finally learned to call witches and wizards. He had, in fact, learned more about the world his cousin Harry Potter inhabited than he had ever thought he wanted to know. Incredulously at first, and then with growing fascination, he listened as it was explained to him exactly what role his cousin played in this parallel reality that his parents had denigrated longer than he could remember. He could hardly believe that the scrawny, shrinking little boy he had bullied for so long could actually be the hero these strangely dressed people made him out to be.
Their sojourn in Bournemouth had been far from unpleasant. Their “guard”, as they referred to themselves, had made sure that any request they made was honored, short of contact with anyone they had known on Privet Drive. They had been lodged in a large house which overlooked the ocean, and was so immaculate upon their arrival that his mother couldn’t find a speck of dust to tut about. His father had, of course, harrumphed about the place, speculating about what “this tribe of weirdos” must have done to “normal people” to procure the sort of wealth displayed in their lodgings.
Dudley tried to agree with his father, but in less than a fortnight, he could no longer understand why he didn’t appreciate what was being done for them. Dudley was thrilled not to have to attend school, and couldn’t understand why his father didn’t enjoy the fact that he had an indefinite holiday from work. They had nothing to do with their days but relax and enjoy the seashore. Still, his father seemed constantly ill at ease, grumbling about how he would be fired from Grunnings, and how many business opportunities were slipping through his fingers as they hid out in this “gilded cage”, as he put it.
Dudley noticed that his mother was becoming more irritable as well, but not so much with the situation as with her husband. Whereas in the past, she would normally just concede to anything his father said, now she could often be heard sniping at him to stop complaining and to make the most of the situation. He had free time, and the wizard who explained it had told them that they could modify the memories of the people Vernon worked for so that his absence would be easily explained, and later forgotten.
Much to his amazement, Dudley had often heard his mother asking the various wizards and witches for news about her nephew. She’d hardly seemed to notice when Dudley would enter the room during such reports. He had often shared his mother’s disappointment when, for long periods, there simply was no news. In time, Dudley came to understand that the fate of his world was somehow intertwined with that of the wizarding world, and that Harry was in the forefront of the battle.
“What has that got to do with anything?” Dudley heard his father say from the dining room, easily able to envision the vein throbbing in his forehead. “It’s got nothing to do with you and me. It’s that freak nephew of yours. I thought we were finally shot of him!”
Dudley knew that, no matter what his father said, his mother was far from being “shot of” Harry Potter. Come to that, neither was Dudley. During their time in their hiding place, Dudley had had long conversations with Hestia Jones, one of the witches charged with the Dursley family’s safety. The woman was a veritable fountain of information about the “famous” Harry Potter. Dudley had known little of the circumstances of Harry coming to live with them on Privet Drive, beyond the fact that his parents had been killed, and for years had thought they’d died in a car crash. He had been surprised to find out that they had been murdered by some evil wizard.
During long discussions with Hestia, which had to be carried on far from Vernon Dursley, who kept telling his son, “You stay away from those freaks, boy,” Dudley was amazed to discover just what his cousin represented to the world of wizards. He couldn’t imagine a more unlikely hero than Harry, but he couldn’t deny the sort of bravery he seemed possess. Dudley had had a glimpse of it the previous summer, and though it took him a while to realize it, he finally got his head around the idea that his own life had been saved by the boy he had spent years bullying and ridiculing.
The last time he had seen his cousin, Dudley had felt a sudden surge of concern and gratitude. He was, however, ill-equipped to deal with such emotions, much less express them coherently. The more he learned about Harry, the more he regretted not even having been able to say “thank you”, or maybe even “I’m sorry”, for all the times he had striven to make Harry’s life miserable.
It didn’t help having had Hestia recount all the times Harry had faced danger and death, and had triumphed each time. He tried to imagine a twelve year old Harry plunging a sword into a huge snake, or a fourteen year old Harry flying on a broomstick and stealing an egg from a dragon. A dragon! His scrawny, little cousin, who always looked so pathetic in Dudley’s castoffs, at whom no one would look twice, had fought a dragon, and won!
Soon, Dudley had stopped waiting for his mother to ask for news, and had taken to watching for Hestia on those occasions when she had been away for days, hoping that she would return with some news of Harry, some clue that he was at least alive, if not safe. Much to his dismay, most of what the witch could tell him seemed to amount to little more than rumour and hearsay. He hadn’t felt any better when Hestia explained that she was not trying to keep anything from him, but that there was simply no information to be had.
Two months into their stay in Bournemouth, Dudley developed a sense of how important the struggle against the dark wizard Voldemort actually was. Hestia made it clear to him the danger to people like himself and his parents; “muggles”, she explained, was the proper term. He found it almost incomprehensible that Voldemort would harbor such hatred of people like him, and that if the struggle was lost, they were all in danger. Dudley had decided that if it was necessary, he had to be prepared to fight.
Having stood naked in front of the full length mirror in his room, Dudley did a critical assessment of himself. Deciding that the weight lifting had produced some impressive results, he still couldn’t deny the obvious. He was fat. The bulk around his midsection had little to do with muscle, and a great deal to do with how he ate and how little real exercise he got. Eschewing his television and his computer games, Dudley began to take long walks on the beach, which eventually evolved into long runs, until he could actually run a full ten miles. As summer gave way to autumn, Dudley could see the changes taking place in his figure, especially in the way his trousers kept threatening to fall off his hips. He wondered how Harry, skinny as he was, had ever been able to wear his old trousers without having them around his ankles most of the time.
Fortunately, one of the witches who guarded the family knew how to shrink the waistband of his trousers so that they would fit correctly. His mother had been thrilled when he started turning down second helpings of more bulky foods, and instead opting for more salads and vegetables, and his father’s chest swelled with pride to see his son looking so fit. “Guess you’ll be fighting the girls off when we get back to Little Whinging, eh, boy?”
Fighting girls off was pretty low on Dudley’s list of priorities. He was indeed preparing to fight, though he wouldn’t dare tell his parents. If his cousin could do so much to save the wizarding world, the least Dudley could do was be prepared to defend his own family. He had no idea if brute force was any match for magic, but something about hearing the true story of Harry Potter made it essential to do something, anything, that could help turn the tide of the battle. Dudley was determined to be ready if the call ever came.
It hadn’t. In mid May, just as Dudley was finishing his daily run, Hestia had appeared in front of him with a loud cracking noise. No matter how many times he had seen her travel this way, Dudley still found it disconcerting.
“It’s over,” she had informed him. “He Who Must Not Be Named is dead!” She wore an expression of supreme joy, and Dudley couldn’t help but think she would rather be with those of her kind, celebrating the defeat of Voldemort.
“What about Harry?” Dudley asked at once. “Did he… is he..?”
“He’s fine,” Hestia assured him. “I don’t know the details yet, but from what I do know, he was the one who killed You Know Who. So, we’ll be arranging for you and your family to go home as soon as we can.”
Dudley had been surprised with his own reaction to this news. He thought he would have been happy to return to Surrey, but life in Bournemouth had become so familiar, and the things he had learned about his cousin and himself in that place made him feel as if he belonged there. Nevertheless, arrangements had been made, and before he knew it, he and his parents were walking through the front door of Number Four, Privet Drive.
Dudley had no idea how the wizards had managed it, but his father returned to work to discover he had been promoted to vice-president of some division or another, though he’d never admit there may have been magical intervention, opting to believe he really was so valuable an employee. Meanwhile, Dudley’s mother had gone from room to room, finding none of the dust she had presumed had been settling the entire time they were away. Dudley quietly unpacked his things, lay on his bed, and tried to convince himself that the whole experience hadn’t been some strange dream.
Life returned to a relative state or normalcy for the Dursley family. There were differences, however. Dudley’s mother seemed less concerned with keeping everything in the house just so, being content with a general tidiness. Dudley himself made no effort to seek out his former friends, no longer feeling a need to be the scourge of the neighborhood. Only his father acted as if the past eleven months hadn’t even happened. It worked well for about two and a half weeks, until the owl landed on the dining room window sill one warm night in June.
Dudley, whose chair faced the window, saw it first. But before he could swallow his food and announce its presence, the bird tapped on the widow with its beak. His father nearly jumped out of his seat when he heard the sound, and then again when he saw what had made it. Without another thought, Dudley got up from his seat and opened the window, allowing the owl to enter. It flew one circuit of the room, before landing on the table in front of his mother, where it stood and lifted a foot, revealing a folded piece of yellowish paper.
Dudley was surprised at the ease with which his mother detached the parchment from the large brown owl’s leg, something that would have had her trembling before their long sabbatical by the sea. Free of its burden, the owl remained where it was, hungrily eyeing the platter of roast beef in the center of the table. Dudley cut a piece from his own plate and handed it to the owl while his mother unfolded the paper.
“It’s from Harry,” she said quietly, and then silently read the contents.
“Well?” his father asked after several long moments. “What is it?”
Dudley could hardly believe the look on his mother’s face as she turned towards his father. It was something like a calm defiance, almost as if she was daring him to respond inappropriately. “He found my sister’s grave. He says he’ll take me to see it if I’d like.”
“Well,” his father huffed, pulling a pen from his jacket pocket. “You can just write back and tell him you’re not interested.”
Dudley watched a dark expression cross his mother’s face. “I’m going.” Her voice had a finality to it that Dudley would have been afraid to question, but his father seemed undaunted. The argument began immediately, and was paused only long enough for his mother to ask Dudley to go to his room. Though months ago he might have argued, now Dudley simply nodded, got up from the table, and climbed the stairs.
Instead of going to his own bedroom, he went to the room Harry had inhabited during his summers on Privet Drive. Sitting on the bed, Dudley could still hear every word his parents spoke, as they made no effort to keep their voices quiet.
“I forbid it!”
“You forbid?” Dudley could hear the derision in his mother’s voice. “Do you honestly believe it works that way?”
“If you go with that freaky nephew of yours,” his father said threateningly, “ I’ll… I’ll…”
“What, Vernon?” His mother spat out. “What will you do? What else can you do? You’ve already made sure that I never saw my sister before she died. You made me ignore my own parents. Frankly, I don’t care anymore. I am going with Harry to visit my sister’s grave. If that means losing you, I really don’t care.”
Dudley sat in the darkness, stunned to hear his mother speaking this way. She had rarely raised her voice to his father, and she had never sounded so resolute when disagreeing with him. While Dudley dreaded the thought that this might actually cause his parents to consider divorce, he had to admit that he was on his mother’s side. Because of his prejudices, Vernon had virtually ensured that his wife had had no contact with her family. Dudley had never met his grandparents on his mother’s side. He assumed they were dead, but he had no evidence of it. He had never seen so much as a picture of them.
Nor had he met his Aunt Lily, or her husband James Potter. He knew from Hestia’s descriptions that Harry was almost the image of his father, but for his eyes, which favored his mother. He recalled the times he had derided Harry for being an orphan, never having stopped to think what a horrible thing it was to say. He couldn’t begin to imagine how hard it must have been for his cousin to be raised as he was, and now he regretted making it so much more difficult. Having spent so much time in the company of wizards and witches, Dudley could no longer understand his father’s dislike for people who were, admittedly, different, but certainly not the freaks and weirdos his father painted them as.
The voices from the dining room had dropped in volume, to the point where Dudley could no longer make out any words. With a deep breath, he stood and made his way back down the stairs.
“Dudders,” his father looked up at him. “We told you to go to your room.”
“I want to go, too,” Dudley said with as much resolve as he could muster.
“Go where?” His father asked.
“With Mum and Harry, when they go… when they go to…”
“Absolutely not!” His father roared, jumping to his feet. “You will not be going anywhere!”
“Yes, I will,” Dudley said evenly. “Someone should be with Mum.” He turned and smiled at his mother, who looked as if she was about to cry. Still, she remained seated instead of running to him and making the sort of fuss she had so often in the past.
“Thank you, Dudley,” his mother said softly. Her expression and tone of voice assured Dudley that he had, for the first time in his life, displayed the sort of unselfishness his parents had always claimed he possessed, and which, to his shame, he knew he never had.
“When do we go?” he asked, ignoring his father’s heaving breath and purple face.
“Harry’s letter says he’ll be here Thursday morning,” his mother replied, taking the pen that his father had produced earlier and writing a few words at the bottom of the parchment. Once she had finished, she folded the paper and reached out tentatively towards the owl, which obligingly raised its leg again, obviously expecting the letter. His mother tied the letter fast, looked at the owl and said, “You know where to go?” With a hoot that almost sounded like an affirmative answer, the owl hopped to the edge of the table. A strong breeze filled the room and knocked over the salt and pepper as the owl flapped its wings and took off through the still open window.
All three Dursleys stared at the window for some time. Finally, Dudley walked over and pulled it shut. He turned back around to see his mother and father glaring at each other.
“He will not be staying in this house again,” his father growled. Dudley presumed he was picking up their interrupted argument, this time not concerned for his presence.
“I seriously doubt he’d want to,” his mother replied, a mixture of blame and guilt in her voice. “He never had any reason to think of this house as his home.”
“Not his home?” His father puffed his chest. “We gave him-”
“Nothing but years of misery,” his mother cut across him. “We did everything in our power to make him feel unwanted and unwelcome. Yet still he and his friends made sure we were safe. And still he is willing to show me where my sister is buried. I just thank God we didn’t manage to do to him what we did to…” she froze and turned to Dudley, looking horrified about what she had almost said. “Oh, Dudley, I didn’t mean…”
“It’s all right, Mum,” Dudley smirked and nodded. “You’re right. I’ve been a right little bastard.”
“Dudley!” His father snapped. “I will not have that kind of language in my house. You are not a… well, you’re not that!”
“Fine,” Dudley allowed himself a real smile. “A wanker, then.” Turning back to his mother, Dudley saw her lips curl and a single tear roll down her cheek. In another moment they both began to chuckle, and then gave way to the first real laugh either of them had had since the day they left Privet Drive, while his father simply stared at them stupidly.
Click here for Part Two